As I am
by Ponaco
Summary: A clandestine meeting in the heart of Tevinter. (Post Trespasser: The Inquisition is now a peacekeeping organization for the new Divine)
1. Chapter 1

Author's Notes: My first attempt at DA fanfiction. A big thanks to my beta reader for help and general support *high fives*

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As I am

The cobbles beneath his feet creaked in broken mortar, with long stretches of stone missing entirely and replaced with foul-smelling quagmires of indecipherable filth. He fought the urge to summon fire to light his path, even as the heat grew in his chest with renewed urgency every time he slipped on the uneven ground. The capital was nothing as he imagined. The age of the place could not be denied and was never contested, but he assumed the stories of its decay were mostly exaggerations from those already inclined to disparage all things from Tevinter. Now, ankle deep in sludge and shadowed by buildings held up by the grace of the Maker alone he thought the tales were actually kind in their depictions.

An elf struggled to pull a lopsided cart piled high with nug skins. She pushed him aside with one gnarled hand, all the time cursing loudly in a voice like gravel. A few of the more colorful words sounded familiar, but the rapid-fire shouts that followed blurred together in an angry mash of unpleasant sounds. Rawley stepped aside with a shrug and a wave of his arm to allow the elf her way. His cavalier attitude only enraged her further, earning him another round of curses for his troubles. The cart lurched forward, pressing him against the nearest building while splashing sludge up the front of his cloak. The old elf woman offered a rude gesture in passing with an added mutter of 'stupid Southerner,' as she went.

"Charming," Rawley murmured, lifting his hood to cover his head.

The chance of being recognized in Tevinter was less so than in a southern city, but he was not eager to take any risks. Time marched forward as it ever did after the events of the Council. Weeks turned into months all too quickly, the reality of separation made all the more acute with each passing day. The sending crystal helped; or made things more difficult depending on the day. Shadowy whispers from afar were hardly a replacement for the glint of mischief in dark eyes or the tug of a smile meant only for him. Above all else it was the absence of his touch that set the hollow feeling in his chest sinking further still.

He would never admit to it, although he had a sneaking suspicion he didn't have to. Lying was never his strong suit, even when the person in question couldn't see his ears turn red or his eyes dart instantly down to his boots. His voice held the sadness in each word, frail from the weight of it. He didn't call attention to it, left it at the corners of long silences that said enough for both of them. He didn't have to lament the inherent cruelty of the crystal. That whispers from far away only stood as a stark reminder of the distance between them.

He didn't have to say these things because Dorian knew. He knew and yet never dragged the truth into the light; never forced the topic or outed Rawley's lies when he said he was fine. A suspicion, a long held belief deep and clawing scratched at this open denial and avoidance. Dorian didn't confront the lies because he did not feel the same. An imbalance always existed. It was there in the past with others, why would now be any different. Someone always loved more than the other. It was the way of things.

Rawley felt guilty for thinking it and guiltier still for believing it so readily. Dorian had the Magisterium to contend with. With war on the horizon and threats from within he wouldn't have time to mope and long for yet one more person to occupy his time. He was busy rebuilding his homeland, saving Tevinter from their enemies and from themselves. He couldn't begrudge him that. Things changed, time moved forward, and they with it. Change came for both of them and there was little point in fighting the current.

The proof hung at his side with a weighted creak and groan. Dagna made the contraption of leather, metal, and polished wood; with the added guarantee that he would be 'good as new,' in no time. No time, was proving far more elusive than originally anticipated. Like with his studies as a child and his more recent attempts to learn Tevene, he was proving to be a poor student when it came to mastering the use of his new prosthetic limb.

It felt heavier than he would like and the straps often pinched and rubbed his skin raw if he wore it for too long. Dagna insisted it was an exercise in trial and error; that each new calibration or fitting was just another step towards perfection. He would smile and nod, never wanting to appear anything besides grateful for her efforts. Lying was never his strong suit and he knew his frustration flashed bright and obvious across his forced smile. Guilt won out then, with his selfishness laid out plain for the world to see. He should be grateful for his life. The mark should have burned him from the inside out. Taking his hand saved his life; it was the price to keep drawing breath. He should be grateful.

The guilt squirmed in his stomach and scorched a shameful path across his skin. He tried not to dwell on it. At night, when his thoughts turned sour and the ache in his chest threatened to burst forth with leaping flames and sparks, he opened his eyes and counted the stars. The stars did not change. They were the same flickering lights he tracked as a child locked behind the walls of the Circle. He counted them then and pretended he was home, lying on the cool grass with his sister, pointing up at the heavens and naming each one. The good could always outweigh the bad if he counted enough lights.

His right hand closed around the slip of paper etched with an address. Excitement and worry fought a well-worn battle in his stomach, with the butterflies finally winning out to leave a ghost of a smile on his face in anticipation. He looked down at the paper and up at the silver tavern sign above his head. A dragon coiled around a barrel of wine with flowing letters beneath its tail. The Tipsy Dragon was in a similar state to the rest of the crumbling street around it.

He understood their shared need for discretion. They were risking enough meeting in the city limits, but he was certain Dorian would have risked a bit more for something a little less dilapidated. Raucous laughter and the bawdy melody of an indecipherable drinking song hit him like a wave as he opened the door. The mostly human patrons paid him little mind as he moved slowly through the crowd, too invested in their song and drinks to care for the appearance of a stranger. The room was dark and warm with a heavy cloak of tobacco on the air. A sturdy woman with an easy laugh and short one ear stood behind the bar, wiping a glass with a rag that couldn't possibly do anything but make the glass dirtier.

"Excuse me," Rawley said in hopes that his accent didn't draw too much attention in the crowded room.

The barmaid raised an eyebrow and listened with a growing smirk at his continued attempts and failures to communicate that he wanted to rent a room. He sighed and felt his face grow warm with embarrassment as his next mispronunciation made her snort with laughter. She held up her hands and shook her head around another boisterous laugh.

"A little far from home, aren't you?" she asked, setting the glass down to fix him with an even stare. She spoke the common trade language with a lilt and cadence that was far removed from the smooth and precise way that Dorian spoke.

"Always," he said in place of a helpful reply.

She snorted and reached under the bar, holding out a large brass key. "Your fancy man was already here," she said, continuing to hold out the key, snatching it back when he reached for it. "Rich fellah, mage robes under a cloak. Said the room was for a southerner with a scar," she said, motioning to her own chin in the same place where Rawley's old scar stretched down towards his throat. "That you, handsome?"

"Yes," he replied, lifting his chin so she could inspect for herself and to hide the blush tinting his face at being called handsome.

She made a rumbling noise deep in her throat and scratched the scared skin where her ear used to be. "Gotta admit you're not what I expected," she said, still holding the key from his reach. "Usually when one of them comes down here all sneaky it's for something worth hiding; something weird or scandalous. Not some southern pretty boy."

"Um, sorry?" he mumbled, shifting nervously on his feet.

"You do something special?" she asked, her smirk turning into a crooked grin. "What did he pay you to come all the way to Tevinter?"

"What? He didn't…wait…you think?" he stammered, taking in a sharp breath as she trailed off into a hacking laugh.

"No shame in it," she said, still laughing as he finally snagged the key from her hand.

Her laugh followed him across the crowded room as he slowly wormed his way through the loud tavern patrons. The stairs arched over the main room with a tilt to one side that was more than a little unnerving. He kept close to the wall in case the old steps decided to give up their fight against gravity and time. The key felt increasingly warm in his hand as he gripped it in lightly glowing fingers.

"What did he pay me," he grumbled, reaching the landing with a disgruntled huff.

The narrow hallway stretched away from the main room with a slow shift to the left. He was beginning to think there wasn't a single straight line in the entire capital. A faded 203 sat embossed on the old key, the numbers nearly indecipherable after years of use. He searched for the corresponding door, his annoyance only flaring when it became clear that the numbers marking the doors were in nothing even remotely close to numerical order.

"What is this some kind of puzzle?" he muttered.

It was only a moment, barely enough time to finish taking a breath. He succumbed to his frustrations and let them cloud his better judgment. He wasn't safe here. Frustrated or not, he should know better. A moment was all his attacker needed. A few seconds of letting his guard down and someone had the drop on him. Flames crackled and sparked at his fingertips, eager to burst forth and burn everything to the ground.

The cold stopped any chance of an inferno. Ice like snakes weaving their way through his veins and making him shiver. He tried to get a punch in before his chest met the wall and his right arm was held in place by a strong grip. He was about to throw his head back in hopes of catching his opponent in the face when the warm press of a mouth along his exposed throat made him shiver in a way that had nothing to do with the cold.

"Watching you from across the room was a wonderful kind of torture," he purred. "It gave me time to plan the best way to ravish you, Amatus."

"Perhaps jumping me wasn't the best plan," Rawley replied, doing little else to dissuade Dorian's wandering hands. "Could have…burned this whole place down."

"Mmm, I think it would be worth it, yes?" he said.

Rawley could feel the smile against his neck and turned to capture it with his lips. There were many kisses in their past and he hoped many more still in their future, but this kiss, this desperate and wanton thing was something new entirely. He felt it in the tightening grip at the base of his skull, rough fingers in his hair pulling him closer. It burned his lungs, afraid even to stop for air; as if this was all but a dream and reality waited for the moment of their parting.

"Inside," Dorian commanded.

The air seemed cold and barren without Dorian pressed against him; the crushing press of his lips still lingering like a ghost on his own. They stumbled into the nearby room. Rawley could not remember giving Dorian the key and yet he slid it into the pocket of his robes just the same. The lanterns along the walls sparked to life with a snap of Dorian's fingers, basking the small room in a dull glow that fought beyond the smudged and blackened glass. The light was enough for Rawley to see him properly for the first time that evening.

He wore a rough spun cloak over far more expensive and ornate fabrics; flashes of silver and green hidden behind dull gray. The cloak found the floor in less time than it took Rawley to even comprehend that Dorian wore it. He crossed the small distance between them and wasted no time in capturing his lips once more. The bed hit Rawley just above the knee and he did nothing to stop Dorian from pushing him backwards onto the lumpy mattress.

"Hmm, we're going to get you a shave," Dorian murmured as he nuzzled along Rawley's stubble-covered chin, paying special attention to the dip beneath his ear.

"Then shall we get you a haircut as well?" he suggested, tugging playfully on Dorian's hair, which had grown considerably in their time apart.

"You don't like it?" he asked, doing his best to sound offended. "I thought it made me look distinguished."

Dorian grazed his teeth along Rawley's left ear, taking away any real reply with a small gasp.

"Would this be part of my price?" Rawley asked, unable to keep the small hint of a grumble from his words.

"Whatever do you mean?" Dorian replied, his deft fingers already making short work of the ties and clasps along Rawley's traveling cloak.

"Your barmaid friend thought I was a prostitute," Rawley muttered, struggling to kick off his boots.

"Hmm, yes, well, she would, wouldn't she," Dorian replied with a peck of a kiss on his forehead. "It's better for us if she continues to think that," he said, the next kiss lingering and far less chaste. "Besides, you'd be a courtesan. I'm far too rich for some common street walker."

"Huh," Rawley muttered.

He felt the rumble of silent laughter deep in Dorian's chest as he pressed down against him. A smile fought it ways across his face, pushing aside the pout he was working so hard to keep fixed on his mouth. He turned away with a dramatic sigh, waving his hand in a dismissive motion.

"You couldn't afford me," he insisted, his laughter turning to a quiet moan under the continued press of Dorian's hands.

"That I do not doubt," Dorian murmured.

It seemed an eternity for those hands to find skin, calloused fingertips exploring the pronounced jut of a hip bone before tracing up along the peaks and valleys of his ribs. His skin seemed to burn with every new touch. The fire burned in his chest and pulled the air from his lungs. It was this touch he longed for on those nights when the nightmares came and the far away voice was not enough to rid them from his thoughts. It was strength and precision, every brush of skin or press of flesh a calculated movement to leave him breathless and writhing. The months seemed nothing now.

"You're skin and bones," Dorian fretted, trailing over his ribs once more. "I'll need to get you some proper food. Perhaps some of those sweet cakes you love so much."

"Yes, please," Rawley sighed, kicking off his remaining boot.

"Up," Dorian said, tugging on Rawley's cloak to free his arm from the sleeve. "You're wearing far too many clothes."

The loud clang of metal and leather, still hidden from view, set the warmth in his stomach turning to stone. The months apart were far from nothing. Change took them both and no amount of familiar touches or breathless kisses could change that. Something close to panic seized him, sending all that was good and warm scurrying to the shadows. The bad outweighed the good and stood bright and vibrant in the dim room. The murky smell of the place overtook him, the shrill creak of the bed frame, and the pinch of the leather strap around the remainder of his arm pushed aside the warmth of his hands and the sweet taste of his lips.

"S-stop," he murmured, fighting the urge to flee. "Stop."

"Amatus…"

"I just…I just need a minute," Rawley insisted, shooing away his fretting hands.

He sat heavy on the edge of the bed, his stocking feet aching from the cold floorboards beneath them. The panic lingered and the fire thrummed like a bellows in his chest. He could feel it crawl towards his fingertips until they burned red as coals. His eyes snapped shut with enough force to make starbursts flare to life in the darkness. He counted the sparks and thought of the cold; the biting, unforgiving cold of the mountains during his long escape from Haven; the cold of the Deep Road in corners that never knew the warmth of the sun.

"Breathe."

The voice came from far away. Strength and silken promises whispered through some unknown magic from a place worlds apart. Not worlds apart, no. Here. Here to see and to touch. He crossed through places old and new to get here; traveled for days to close the distance. He was far away now too and still the fire threatened to burn. Still it thrummed in his ears and beat the drums of war inside his chest.

"Breathe, Rawley," the voice murmured his name like a promise. "It is all right, just breathe."

There were strong hands on his shoulders, hands that were not there before, hands that kept him grounded, brought him back to the far away. He forced a breath in through his nose, the air instantly cooling burnt lungs. The next breath came easier, but still shook when he let it out. Dorian murmured quietly in Tevene. He wasn't certain if it was a spell or less likely a prayer, but the words washed over him like the crashing of waves. He found the same words tumbling from his lips, although the meaning remained foreign to him.

"I…I'm sorry," he said, barely recognizing the voice as his own. "I don't know what came over me."

"I have a fairly good idea," Dorian replied, his voice quiet and guarded as if speaking to a wounded animal.

"It, it was just a…a very long journey. I'm fine," Rawley insisted, leaning forward to rub his eyes.

"Has anyone ever told you you're a wretched liar," Dorian said, taking a seat beside him.

"No one seems to tell me anything different," Rawley muttered.

With the panic in retreat the cold and heavy weight of shame slithered in to take its place. He stared down at the carved wooden fingers, forever frozen in the same position, slightly bent inwards in a way that Dagna described as natural. There was nothing natural about the way it sat heavy atop his leg, like some cold dead thing he could not be rid of. Dorian sighed and slid his hand to rest beside Rawley's.

"I've seen you," he said, still choosing his words with the utmost care. "After…"

"Not like this," Rawley said, the rush of words surprising even him. "That was…it was in the infirmary. Not like this."

Dorian rose to his feet, the bed creaking in response. He took a deep breath before pacing a few feet one way and then the next. A muttered curse in Tevene fell from his lips and he smoothed out his mustache with a careful press of his forefinger and thumb. It was something he did when he was nervous, when he was stalling for time or searching for an answer. Rawley lowered his gaze to the floor as another wave of shame washed over him.

"Do you think me so shallow?"

The words pulled the air from his lungs and sent another wave crashing down before the first even rolled away from the shore. He forced his eyes up to meet Dorian's gaze. He owed him as much. Heat pressed at the back of his vision, threatening to spill forth at any moment. He swallowed and searched for the words, for any words.

"No," he said with a fervent shake of his head. "No, that's…that's not. I don't think that. I just…I didn't want…you'll see me. You'll know."

Dorian knelt before him and took hold of his face so he could not look away. "I'll know what?"

Rawley closed his eyes and swallowed back the cold, sinking fear that followed his thoughts the last few months. He didn't want to bring this into the light. It was unavoidable. He knew it. He hoped he could escape it a little while longer, but he never could. It always found him. It always won out.

"You'll see me…for what I truly am," he said in a voice no more than a whisper.

"I know what you truly are," Dorian replied, his hand lifted to cup the side of Rawley's face. "You are the man I love. Losing your hand…"

"It's not about my hand," he said, pinching his eyes shut once more. "It's…the man you…love," he said, struggling with the last word. "Was the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste. I was someone…something. The mark made me something and now…now I'm…I am only me. I am no one."

Dorian's grip tightened and Rawley found himself leaning into it.

"The mark wasn't even meant for me. I didn't earn it. It was a mistake. Everything…the only thing that made me something was a mistake," he murmured, reaching up to cover Dorian's hand with his own. "I'm sorry…I don't expect you to understand."

"Rawley…"

"I'm not…magic doesn't come easily to me. You can read about something once and then there it is," he said, shame twisting his words into something hoarse and struggled. "You're brilliant and now you're a Magister and…and I don't…I know you have to be here. You have responsibilities…you have people depending on you," he swallowed and regretted his next words before they even left his lips. "But they took my hand…they took what made me something and then…you left. I needed…you were what made me someone and you left."

Arms wrapped around him in an embrace that threatened to push the air from his lungs. He buried his face into the soft fabric of his robes, breathing in the spicy tinge of his soaps and oils to find the earthier scent of his skin beneath. The raucous shouts and laughter from the tavern below hummed under the floorboards. He hoped Dorian would remain silent. That they could stay like this for a moment longer before reality dashed everything to pieces.

"The Mark was not meant for you," Dorian said. "But it found you just the same," he pulled back and tilted Rawley's chin up. "What you chose to do with that power, that is what makes you something, not the mark itself."

He held fast as Rawley tried to pull away. "Others would have let it corrupt them. Others would have garnered all that power for themselves. You chose to save the world," he leaned forward until their foreheads met. "You are kind, honest and brave…you are a good man in a world full of monsters, liars, and cowards. This is what makes you someone. That is why I love you, not because of your horrendous luck."

A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he pressed it against his. "I should have stayed with you after, Amatus," he breathed, still leaning in. "I'm sorry."

"No, you had to go. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said…"

"No, you were right. I should have stayed a while longer. What would a few more weeks really have mattered to the Imperium."

"They need you," Rawley replied, trying to hide a sniffle with a cough.

"Hmm, you flatter," Dorian said, kissing him once more. "Come now, I think we both could use a bit of a rest. We had treasury talks today, hours of old men and women arguing over a few coins, positively maddening," he said with a dramatic sigh. "And I know, unfortunately from firsthand experience, that the back roads into the city are not the most comfortable way to travel. You must be exhausted."

Rawley nodded and loosened his grip on the front of Dorian's robes. "I'm sorry," he said again, his ears burning red with the shame of it. "I didn't mean to…to ruin things."

"Nothing is ruined," Dorian insisted, lifting Rawley's hand to his lips for a gentle kiss. "You won't be rid of me so easily."

Rawley nodded once more and felt something close to a smile threaten his gloomy disposition. "Will you help me with my cloak?" he asked, unable to hide a tiny grimace.

A few well-placed tugs freed his arms of the sleeves, leaving nothing left to hide behind. He watched Dorian inspect the limb with the same expression he used when pouring over a pile of books in his corner of the library. He reached out a tentative hand to test the joint at the wrist and then further up to the larger joints of the elbow. He smoothed out his mustache and crinkled his nose in thought.

"It's heavier than I thought it would be," he said with a quirk of one slender eyebrow. "Dagna built it, yes?"

"Yes, she said the weight will help me wield it better," he explained, lifting the arm and dropping it with a thud as if to prove a point.

"And does it?" Dorian asked.

"Couldn't really say," Rawley replied with a shrug.

"Hmm, right, well, it certainly looks impressive. Lots of moving parts and all, but if anyone could build you something worth having it would be Dagna," he said, pushing up Rawley's sleeve to see how the prosthetic fit to his arm. "You don't sleep in this, do you?"

"No," he said with a slight wince. "I've probably worn it for too long already."

He undid the straps, keenly aware that Dorian watched his every move. The prosthetic slid off, the warm ache of a new bruise stinging in the cold air once the straps pulled away. Dorian reached for his arm before he could stop him, his face marred with a deep frown as he inspected the bruises and patches of red where the leather rubbed away the skin.

"Unacceptable," he said with a cluck of his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "How does she expect…"

"I just wore it for too long," Rawley said, hoping to put an end to his fretting. "It isn't usually this bad and Dagna said it could take a while for us to get the best fit."

"I will still write her a strongly worded letter if it is all the same to you," Dorian grumbled, shrugging out of his robes with jerky, annoyed movements. "Honestly, it is supposed to help you, not hurt you."

Rawley let him fret and complain and grumble his dissatisfactions to all who would listen. It always made him smile. Dorian could find passion and fight against even the slightest affront to his good graces. He pressed up against him once he calmed enough to lie down; the familiar press of their bodies something their time apart could not make forgotten. He rested his head against his chest with a sigh.

"You are always like a furnace," Dorian said, his fingers tracing along Rawley's shoulder.

"Sorry," he mumbled, his ears burning pink.

"Oh, no, I like it," Dorian replied, leaning to kiss Rawley atop the head. "It always gave me such a lovely excuse to search out your tent when the Inquisition dragged me to one of the South's frozen wastelands."

"I wasn't aware you needed an excuse," Rawley said, nuzzling against him.

"Hmm, I suppose not."

The quiet was peaceful now, close and intimate and of their own making. The thrum from the tavern below and the low, steady beat of Dorian's heart made Rawley's eyes heavy with the exhaustion he did his best to ignore. The years of fighting, of suspicion, and fear made moments of peace, of relaxation things to cherish; brief flashes of light in the darkness. Fingers caressed his skin, kneading sore muscles with cunning a precision.

"Do you really not like my hair?"

The question roused him from his decent into sleep, blinking back oblivion with a grumble deep in his throat. "What?"

"My hair, do you not like it long?"

"Oh, umm, no, it's fine," he mumbled, nuzzling further into the crook of Dorian's arm in hopes of hiding the unstoppable blush across his face.

"Liar," he said with an indignant huff. "I would have you know this hairstyle is the height of fashion at the moment."

"Hmm, far be it for me to have you go against popular fashion," Rawley murmured, earning a playing elbow to the ribs for his troubles.

"I would take your advice on many things, Amatus, but fashion will never be one of them," Dorian said with a curt nod. "I have however been considering shaving off my mustache…"

"No," Rawley said with a quick swivel of his chin and an instant reddening of his ears. "I mean, if you want to but…I…it suits you," he stammered, trailing off when he realized he walked right into his trap.

"I do love it when you are all commanding," Dorian whispered with a smirk and a kiss.


	2. Chapter 2

Morning was different in this part of the city. Cloaked in the shadows of grander buildings, the inhabitants of the low streets knew sunlight was a precious commodity. A sudden break in the gloom would always be met with an upturned smile, basking in the warmth for one glorious moment before trudging back into the shadows. This wasn't the side of the city Dorian wanted to show Rawley. Glimmers of past its magnificence shown even here, hidden in the remains of a temple or along the broken arch of the ancient aqueduct overhead. Dorian didn't want to scuttle around corners and squint at ancient ruins. He wanted to bask in the sun with his Amatus at his side.

He wanted to spend the morning at the grand bath house for a soak in the hot springs followed by afternoon tea. The hanging gardens at Madam Viscew's estate would be a must. The Imperium library of course. He would show Rawley his favorite reading spots and smirk while he tried his best to feign interest in ancient Tevinter scrolls until they stole a few kisses between the stacks. He wanted to show him that Tevinter, his Tevinter; not some decrepit old tavern in the city slums.

He flipped the hood of his cloak over his head before pulling open the door to the Tipsy Dragon. The main room seemed almost cavernous now empty of last night's patrons. Ascending the stairs he opened the bedroom door as quietly as the rusted hinges would allow. He needn't worry about the noise. Rawley was right where he left him; sprawled on his stomach with nothing but his right foot sticking out from under the blanket, snoring softly. The sight made his own stomach flutter with butterflies he would never admit to. Setting the basket of pastries on the bed-stand he sat beside Rawley, resting his hand on his shoulders.

"Amatus," he said quietly, giving his shoulder a squeeze.

His only response was an unintelligible series of grunts and Rawley burrowing further under the pile of blankets. Dorian hated to wake him. He knew the journey to Tevinter wasn't an easy one, especially when taking the back roads, but it wasn't the long journey that put the dark circles under his eyes. Nor was it travel that threatened to take his smile or made his hands shake. That was another thing entirely, something deeper and sinister. Dorian could not help but feel responsible for some of it, but he would be damned if he stood back and did nothing to fight it.

"Come now, I've brought some of those disgusting cinnamon twists you love," Dorian said, lightly smacking the heap of blankets where he best thought Rawley's backside should be.

"Hmmpf," the blanket pile replied before a hand shot out, grasping expectantly at the air.

Dorian took hold of the hand before it could retreat back under the safety of the blankets and heaved Rawley up to sitting. The other man crinkled his face in distress and slumped his shoulders forward with a pout. His hair stuck straight up and several pillow creases marked the side of his face. He sniffed in the direction of the pastries and pulled the basket over before biting one in half. A wave of resentment washed over Dorian, to settle heavy and bitter in his chest. He resented that they had to hide; that their reunion after months apart was marred by a filthy room in an even filthier tavern.

"Stop eating that," he said, not surprised when Rawley lurched back to keep the pastry out of Dorian's reach.

"No, I like them," he insisted, narrowing his eyes in suspicion before shoving the rest into his mouth.

Dorian resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "You'll ruin your appetite," he said, managing to snag the basket. "I'm going to take you someplace nice."

Rawley raised an eyebrow and tilted his head to the side in that inquisitive way that so often adorned his features. "But, we need to keep a low profile. It isn't safe…"

"Fine, then I will take you home," Dorian said, with a huff and an annoyed tap of his foot. "I will not have your time in Minrathous consist of a flea-bitten tavern and some stale cinnamon twists."

"You do realize that I came here for you, not to sightsee," Rawley replied, licking the remaining sugar from his fingers. "And I like the cinnamon twists."

"That's because you have the palate of a Hinterland stable boy," Dorian grumbled, trying to hide even the idea of a blush at his words. "No arguments. I am taking you home. We'll have a nice long bath, eat food that does not only consist of bread and sugar, and then we will make love on a bed not stuffed with straw."

"So, you've really thought this through?" Rawley replied with just a hint of a smirk that Dorian was powerless not to kiss.

"Oh, no, I live entirely in the moment," Dorian breathed with a smirk of his own and a second kiss that was far less chaste.

He wrapped his hand around the back of Rawley's neck, the skin at his nape hot to the touch as it always was. He trailed his hands down his back, pressing against him with a sudden urgent need to be closer. It was fire beneath his fingertips, red-hot and glowing like embers. He closed his eyes and summoned cold with a breath that lingered in a mist on the air. He traced an icy hand down Rawley's spine until he shivered and gasped form the touch.

"Still…want to leave?" Rawley asked, arching his back with another shiver.

"I do," Dorian replied with a feather-light kiss to his shoulder. "But I am seriously considering moving that last bit of business to the top of the list."

He smiled at the quiet chuckle drawn from Rawley's chest. There was still something there, something broken and hurt beneath the surface, but the clawing desperation no longer haunted his eyes and his hand was steady as he reached for another pastry.

"I'll need to keep my strength up," he offered when Dorian gave him a reproachful raise of his eyebrows.

"Get dressed so I can tear your clothes off later," Dorian said, tossing him his discarded shirt from the night before.

"So bossy," Rawley grumbled, but there was a smile lingering at the edge of his words and a new sense of urgency to his movements. "Are you sure this is going to be safe?" he asked, holding the pastry in his mouth as he reached for his prosthetic.

"We'll take separate paths. I'll have one of my servants meet you at the kitchen entrance," Dorian said. "No one should look twice. You're scruffy enough to not draw any attention."

It was Rawley's turn to roll his eyes. "Thought you liked me scruffy," he teased, with a wiggle of his eyebrows and his mouth still full of pastry.

"You walk a fine line, Amatus," he replied, kissing the top of his head.

Dorian watched him struggle to pull on his prosthetic, leaning forward to hold the top portion in place with his chin as he attempted to tighten the straps with his hand. The top portion kept sliding out of place at the last moment, resulting in a series of increasingly angry curses. Rawley heaved the prosthetic up once more for another try. Dorian moved to help him.

"I got it," Rawley snapped, closing his eyes as he took in a sharp breath. "I'm sorry," he said almost instantly, his ears going red with shame. "I just…I have to do this myself."

"You don't have to. I can help…"

"But you're not always here, are you?" Rawley replied, holding the top of the prosthetic with his teeth as he pulled it tight to his arm. "I have to do things for myself. I'm not going to…to rely on other people for every little thing."

He pushed to his feet, leaving Dorian still sitting on the bed. He pulled on his shirt as he paced the warped floorboards. Frustration and anger rolled off him in waves, the heat of it radiating like a roaring fire. His hand shook as he struggled with the buttons on his shirt. He was broken again, laid open raw and exposed in his struggle. It burned to see it. The guilt and despair of having even a small part in breaking the man before him made Dorian desperate to heal what wounds he could. He was on his feet, his arms wrapped around Rawley even as he went rigid in his grasp.

"I'm here now."

He tightened his grip when Rawley moved to return the embrace. They stood in silence, both clinging to the other as though letting go would set them adrift. A collective sigh moved through their bodies and settled heavy with the exhaustion of the past few months. Rawley pressed his face into the front of Dorian's shoulder another sigh, more fragile and broken than the first rattled in his chest.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, the words darkened by shame.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," Dorian insisted.

"I shouldn't have snapped at you," Rawley said, with a sniffle and a shake of his head. "I just…everything is…I get frustrated."

Dorian loosened his grip so he could tilt Rawley's chin up to force his gaze. "We'll make a list; all of the tasks that you are struggling with and then we will figure out the best way to accomplish them, yes?"

The glimmer of hope in his eyes sent some of Dorian's guilt fleeing to the shadows. Rawley nodded and offered a ghost of a smile before running his sleeve under his nose with a sniffle. His smile broadened at the glint of disgust that curled Dorian's upper lip.

"You did that precisely to annoy me," he accused.

"I did, yeah," Rawley said, his smile broadened as Dorian leaned in for a kiss.


	3. Chapter 3

"Is this the Pavus estate?" Rawley asked for third time and only earning a glare in reply, also for the third time.

The elf blocking the kitchen door crossed her arms over her chest and started to tap out an annoyed pattern with her heeled boot. Rawley knew the look on her face intimately from his childhood. Many a put-upon kitchen maid or his mother wore that same disapproving scowl when he tried to sneak sweets before dinner or when he let a nug into the kitchen. The look brought him back to those scoldings. His ears turned red and his shoulders slumped forward in contrition.

"I…I'm sorry. I feel as though we may have gotten off on the wrong foot. My name is Rawley. Dorian was supposed to meet me. Perhaps I beat him here, but I assure you…"

He trailed off as the elf let out a long, exaggerated huff through her nose. She sped up her foot tapping and curled her hands into fists. Rawley threw up his hand in defeat.

"Is this even the Pavus estate? Can you at least point me in the right direction?" he asked with a sigh.

"Try the harbor," she said with a thick accent that did little to mask her disdain.

"Rawley? What are you doing standing out there? Oh, for the love of…let him in, Iora," Dorian hissed, adding something in Tevene that made her grudgingly step aside.

Dorian took hold of Rawley's hand and pulled him over the threshold into a kiss that somehow deepened Iora's scowl. She slammed the door and crossed her arms once more. Dorian paid her sour mood little mind, keeping a tight grip on Rawley's hand. He led him through the kitchen, past several arched ovens and a long wooden table piled high with more food than could possibly be necessary. Dorian plucked a grape from a nearby bowl, popping it into his mouth before handing another to Rawley.

"Iora, we will be taking lunch in my chambers. You can leave the tray in the sitting room," Dorian said, snagging another grape. "Now, let's get you out of that filthy traveling cloak and into a bath," he added with a quick nibble to Rawley's neck.

"I don't think she likes me very much," Rawley whispered once they were halfway up the staircase, glancing back over his shoulder to make sure the scowling elf wasn't lurking behind them.

"Oh, no, she hates you," Dorian said with a flippant wave of his hand. "Don't worry on it."

"What? How can she hate me? I barely met her, maybe if I…"

"I said don't worry on it," Dorian replied, taking hold of his face once they reached the top landing. "You're the conniving southern mage who stole me away from a proper marriage to some pour Tevinter girl and nothing anyone else says will ever convince Iora otherwise. Honestly, I think she cares more about my family's legacy than my father did."

Rawley leaned into the kiss that followed, his hand finding the curve of Dorian's waist even under the many layers of his robes. Dorian's hand found his once more and they moved onward in silence. The house was quiet in that echoing, stillness of any grand space that held more memories than occupants. The landing above the kitchen led to a smaller staircase and a side parlor above filled with bookshelves and furniture that seemed better suited for a museum than a home.

"Oh…would you look at that," Rawley said, skidding to a halt in front of a row of family portraits lining the marble-floored hallway.

Dorian gave an undignified snort and pulled on his hand with little success. "Yes, yes, have a good laugh at my horrendous haircut and the atrocious outfit. I'll have you know my mother picked them both and I was not afforded any say in the matter. Apparently the entire look is traditional according to her and she gets very testy when someone suggests otherwise."

Rawley nodded and tapped his fingers along his chin in thought as though appraising a valued piece of art. "I do think this might be my most favorite painting ever made," he said, unable to hold back the smirk that fought its way to the forefront. "The ruffles and ringlets just really set the whole thing off."

Dorian took hold of his shoulders and tried to forcibly steer him away from the painting in question. "Right, you've had your fun. Now come along or the bathwater will get cold."

"I think my favorite part is that the artist truly captured how miserable you must have been wearing that," Rawley snickered, craning his neck for one last look at the portrait.

"I'm certain if I were to visit the Trevelyan homestead there would be an equally embarrassing family portrait hanging above the mantel," Dorian grumbled, finally pulling him away from the painting.

"Oh, no, I was an adorable child," Rawley said, flashing a grin. "And by the time I reached my awkward phase I was in the Circle. So there are no portraits to be found."

Dorian gave a noncommittal grunt and led the way through the main foyer and up the grand staircase to his chambers above. The city home was just as Rawley imagined it; full of extravagance and expensive furnishings that made him afraid he would knock over a priceless vase at any turn. The windows along the second floor stood open to the city beyond, letting in a dry breeze that carried the scent of the city itself mixed with the spicy fragrance that permeated throughout the entire building.

The bathroom was as opulent as any other room in the house, with blue and gold tiled floors that stretched up into intricate mosaics of the old gods on the domed ceiling above. A tub the size of a small swimming pool sat sunken into the floor with a small set of steps leading into the lightly rolling water. Steam rose from the surface and the humidity already cause the hair at the nape of Rawley's neck to curl.

Somehow already rid of his outer robe Dorian set to help Rawley out of his traveling cloak. They undressed in silence, careful, slow hands helping the other with buckles and ties until there was nothing left between them. A few light kisses pressed on unnecessarily shy lips before they descended the steps together and settled against the tub wall with a familiar tangle of limbs and press of skin. Rawley closed his eyes and rested his head against Dorian's chest, sighing when the other man traced lazy fingers down his shoulder. He flinched as the fingers moved along the scars zig-zagging up the remainder of his arm.

"You're beautiful," Dorian whispered, pressing a kiss to Rawley's shoulder as he gave a grunt of disbelief. "Are you calling me a liar?"

"No, I just…"

"Good, because I would never lie about something as serious as beauty," Dorian said, smiling when a low chuckle rumbled in Rawley's chest.

"You know, maybe Iora won't hate me once she gets to know me," Rawley murmured, splashing his hand lightly atop the warm water, sending a plume of bubbles fluttering over the surface.

"By the Maker, I told you…"

"I know, but I don't like it that she hates me for no reason," Rawley stopped him with a pout.

"Not everyone can like you," Dorian said, leaning forward to press his lips along the path his fingers previously traveled. "She's a miserable old bat whose only pleasure in life is being miserable," he insisted, pausing at the curve where Rawley's shoulder met his neck to leave a gentle bite. "And who cares what she thinks. Who else do you need to like you besides me?"

"No one…I suppose," Rawley said with a gasp as Dorian's wandering hands slid beneath the surface of the water.

"Quite," Dorian replied. "I'm pleased you have finally realized my opinion is truly the only one of importance."

Rawley didn't have to turn around to know he was flashing a smug smile behind his mustache. "And so modest," he breathed, arching as Dorian's skilled fingers worked at the knot in his lower back.

"It is one of my most redeeming qualities," Dorian mused, rubbing his thumbs in slow circles. "Along with my incredible good looks and legendary bravery, of course."

"Of course," Rawley agreed, finding it increasingly more difficult to pay attention under the careful prodding of Dorian's hands.

"You are one giant knot," Dorian fretted, moving his hands further up Rawley's back despite the small whimper of protest from the other man. "Honestly, have you forgotten how to relax in my absence?"

Rawley winced as Dorian pressed between his shoulder blades until the tension started to give way. "Well, to be fair, my masseuse was all the way up here in Tevinter. I couldn't very well do this myself."

Dorian reached for the luffa on the edge of the tub and dunked it beneath the water before rubbing it along Rawley's back. "I'll have to remind you how it is done," he said, a mischievous smile snaking across his face. "After you're all clean we'll head back to my chambers and I'll give you a proper lesson."

"All clean," Rawley said almost immediately, grinning when the slight outburst caused Dorian to laugh.

"I will be the judge of that," Dorian said, rubbing the soapy luffa in a lazy pattern across his shoulders.

They stayed in the tub until the water cooled, ascending the steps to the welcomed embrace of soft robes and clean slippers. Rawley padded across the tiled floor after Dorian, the other man never far enough from his side to break contact. The bathroom door, gilded and carved with an epic battle between Tevinter mage, opened onto a grand bedchamber that dwarfed his tower room at Skyhold. A tall window with sheer curtains led to a balcony dripping with sweet-smelling flowers and vines. A four-poster bed sat atop a raised portion of the floor at the room's center, the canopy and bed linens a deep crimson etched with gold.

"I mean, is it big enough though?" Rawley teased, craning his neck to look up at the frescos adorning the ceiling.

He wasn't surprised that his only answer came in the form of a kiss. Not the soft, fleeting kisses they shared in the bath, but desperate and urgent kisses that were done with waiting. Dorian's hands found their way into his loose robe, grasping and pushing against his chest until he stumbled back towards the bed. He sunk down onto the soft duvet and the featherbed beneath, the sensation drawing a content sigh after weeks of sleeping on the ground or beds that felt near enough. Dorian pressed down on top of him and all thoughts of the bed were lost in more frantic kisses and the feeling of skin on skin.

"What do you want?" Dorian asked.

His breath hot and wanting against Rawley's ear. The mere brush of it sent a shiver through his body and set his skin alight with the heat of it. He needed to be closer to it, to engulf his senses in the familiar warmth, the earthy scent that lingered beneath the spice of cologne. He wanted it.

"You," Rawley replied, blushing scarlet and lifting his hips to meet Dorian's with a tiny gasp.

"That is very sweet, Amatus, but I meant something more specific," Dorian murmured, rolling his hips to meet him. "Tell me what you want."

Rawley felt the blush heat his entire body and he rolled his eyes up towards the canopy. "I…I don't know," he said, stumbling over the words.

"Yes you do," Dorian insisted, scraping his teeth over the skin of Rawley's throat.

Rawley took in a sharp breath and bit his bottom lip. "I…I want you to…to use your mouth," he said in a rush of words that ended in a small snort of laughter and his hand lifted to cover his face. "Maker, I sound so stupid."

He shivered as Dorian kissed a trail along his chest. "You want me to suck your cock?"

Another laugh, dangerously close to a giggle tumbled out of Rawley's lips and he clamped his hand over his mouth to stop another. He nodded even as his ears burned with embarrassment. Dorian stared up at him and crinkled his nose above a petulant pout of his lips.

"Say it," he commanded, kissing further down his stomach, but staying adamantly away from the one place Rawley most wanted him to touch.

"I did!" Rawley whined, with an encouraging lift of his hips.

"You most certainly did not," Dorian said as he placed a teasing kiss to the inside of Rawley's thigh.

"You're a horrible man," Rawley grumbled, running his fingers through Dorian's hair.

"I'm also a patient man," Dorian said with another kiss, more lingering than the first.

"Ha, not in my experience," Rawley said, biting back a moan as the next kiss moved higher. "All right…I…I want you to suck my cock," he said, cracking into an undignified burst of laughter. "I'm…I'm sorry. I'm rubbish at this," he snickered. "Honestly, I don't know why you insist on making me try."

He looked down to give Dorian a sheepish smile, surprised to find him smiling back up at him.

"Because, Amatus," he said quietly. "I do so love to hear you laugh."


	4. Chapter 4

That most blessed of moments between sleep and waking fogged his thoughts with the muffled sounds of the city outside the window and the encompassing softness of the featherbed beneath him. It was a welcomed change to the troubled, fractured sleep he mustered on the trip north or the restless tossing and turning he grew accustomed to in Kirkwall. He rolled onto his back and stretched his legs out towards the end of the bed, delighting in the fact that they were nowhere near it. The blankets pooled around his hips, the morning air already warm enough for it not to matter. He flung his arm out, intent on pulling Dorian towards him. His forehead creased into a frown as he met with an empty side of the bed.

He sat up with a start as a loud, metal clang rang throughout the room. Sleep blurred eyes landing on the slight form of Iora, glowering at him from beside the grand window. He hurried to cover himself, suddenly very aware of his state of undress. A blush burned to life across his skin at the rough scoff sounding from her throat. She motioned with a stiff arm towards the tray atop the small table beside the window.

"Breakfast," she said with an unmistakable curl of her lip.

"Oh, right…thank you," Rawley said, his voice still rough with sleep.

She gave a curt nod and glided across the room on feet that were a bit too quiet for his comfort. He cleared his throat before she reached the door.

"Umm, where is Dorian?" he asked, the question lingered on the air as she took her time answering.

"Lord Pavus was called away to the Imperium," she replied, not bothering to face him as she spoke. "He'll be gone for some time. Do not break anything in his absence."

Rawley cringed as she slammed the door in her leave. The bed chamber seemed cavernous and alien now that he was alone. The bed that was such a welcomed change now felt too soft and ludicrously big without a companion to help fill it. He swung his feet to the floor and curled his toes against the finely woven carpet beneath them. Everything looked gaudy and glaring in the harsh light of day; all flash and sparkle with nothing of substance to hold on to. A slight ache settled in his chest at the harsh realization that Dorian left without saying goodbye.

He stood, stretching up towards the ceiling before shrugging into the silk dressing gown hanging beside the bed. The fabric was cool to the touch, like water over stone and blue, the shade eerily reminiscent of the robes he wore so often during his missions with the Inquisition. Traipsing through the Western approach or scouting the endless hills of the Hinterlands seemed a lifetime ago. He often found himself wondering if any of those adventures had happened at all. If maybe this was all some cruel illusion created by one of his more determined tormentors at the Circle and soon he would wake up to their taunts and laughter at his expense.

"Don't be ridiculous," he murmured the words aloud to r convince him of their truth.

Breakfast helped, as it usually did. Cut oats with a sweet red fruit he had never before tasted, a plate of eggs as fluffy as air, and a decadent pastry saddled with a small note in a flowery hand instructing him to _eat the real food first_. The note somehow found its way beneath the tray and the pastry met its end first. Rawley closed his eyes and savored every bite, the sweet, flaky confection almost sinfully good when paired with the spicy tea steaming in the delicate cup beside the plate. He ate the rest of his breakfast on the balcony, staring out over the city.

The city far more impressive from this vantage point than the previous morning spent wandering the twisting, crowded streets. The shouts of vendors and the echoing clang of Chantry bells rang out across the dry air. It wasn't a sound he expected to hear this far north, but it was a welcomed familiarity. The city reminded him more than a little of Dorian; flashes of brilliance and finery to hide something deeper and more real beneath. The ancient streets and shimmers of brilliance both begged to be explored.

Even in his absence Rawley could still hear Dorian's voice, clipped and guarded telling him what a terrible idea such an exploration would be. He smiled and shook his head, searching the room for his clothes; so hastily removed the night before. He wasn't entirely surprised to find his clothes missing. After the litany of complaints Dorian launched towards them he half expected to find them smoldering in a pile at the center of the room. His prosthetic lay carefully at the foot of the bed along with a neatly folded pile of clothing, and another note in Dorian's hand.

 _Amatus, I was regretfully called away this morning. A magister's work is never done. I shall return as soon as I am able. I have taken the liberty of leaving you something new to wear as your traveling cloak looked as though a druffalo trampled it into a mud puddle. Do try and relax while I am gone. You may need your strength for this evening. Dorian._

He ran his thumb over the signature and blushed scarlet at the insinuation of the last line. The majority of the fabric was of the same shade of blue as the silk robe, with enough silver bits and buckles to make him question exactly the best way to put it on. The trousers were easy enough to maneuver, but even while wearing his prosthetic he was left standing shirtless, turning over the frustrating garment over in search of an arm hole.

"Is…wait…where is the bottom?" he grumbled, considering just draping it over his shoulders and calling it a day.

"The straps go on the right side."

The quiet voice made him jump and clutch the garment to his chest. An elf, taller and younger than Iora, stood inside the threshold watching him in quiet amusement. She walked across the room and took the shirt from his hand. She turned it over and gave a slight bow of her head indicating for him to lean forward.

"Right, of course, thank you," he replied with a sheepish smile, ducking down far enough for her to place the shirt over his head. "Why do they even make shirts this complicated?" he asked around a nervous chuckle.

"I believe Lord Pavus says looking good isn't meant to be easy," she replied, guiding his prosthetic through the folds and ornate buckles. "Otherwise everyone would do it."

Her warm smile began to put him at ease and he offered one in return. "That does sound like him," he said, adding with a slight bow. "I'm so sorry, where are my manners, I'm Rawley."

A quiet laugh tumbled over her lips, it was warm and welcoming like her smile and it made him like her instantly. "I know," she said, patting the top of his hand. "Lord Pavus speaks of you constantly."

"He does?" Rawley asked.

The words became embarrassingly hoarse and he cleared his throat in a failed attempt to hide the sudden emotion.

"Of course," she said, linking her arm with his. "Only good things, I assure you."

She steered him across the room, her grip surprisingly strong for one so slight in appearance. Her heeled shoes clicked on the marble floor and she pushed open the chamber room door.

"I am Shala," she said by way of an introduction.

"You work for Dorian?" he asked.

"I was his father's official translator and personal secretary," she said. "When he passed away my services were transferred to the new Lord Pavus."

Rawley frowned at the connotations of such an arrangement, but kept his opinions to himself. Shala continued on, seemingly undeterred from her task.

"Lord Pavus asked that I keep you company while he is away at the Imperium. He seemed to think you might…get up to trouble if left to your own devices."

The warm, knowing smile fluttered across her pale face once more. She took a sharp turn down the next hallway with quick, precise steps. The home seemed to stretch on forever, one elaborately decorated hallway after another. Shala stopped in front of a set of golden doors that soared up towards the ceiling and leaned against them with considerable effort, swatting away his attempt to help. The doors gave up the fight, lurching in to allow them entrance.

"I'm sure I have no idea what he might be insinuating," he replied, his ears turning pink at the guilt over only moments before having considered going outside to explore.

"No, of course not," she said, hurrying about the library to open the curtains and let in the morning light.

The room smelled of dust and paper, with the faint hint of leather bindings. It reminded him of Dorian's favorite corner at Skyhold. The sharp memory of watching him reach for the highest shelf, silhouetted by the dying light of day assaulted his thoughts. He could see every detail of that moment. The way he stood up on his toes for just that extra bit of needed height. How the soft light of dusk made his hair seem even darker and the tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth when he finally reached his prize. It was in that moment, that instance of calm and a simple task that he knew; he knew he loved him.

"The collection is quite extensive. Much of it is in Tevene although there is a sizable selection of works in the trade tongue. Mostly on magical theory I'm afraid…" Shala stopped her explanation. "Are you all right?"

"Hmm? Yes, fine," he replied with a smile that rang false. "You said you were a translator?"

She looked taken aback at the sudden interest and answered with a weary tilt of her head. "I did."

He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck, finding the floor increasingly interesting. "Well, you see I have been trying to learn some Tevene," he said, moving his hand far too much as he spoke. "And it isn't exactly easy going and I thought perhaps, I mean, you don't have to, I'm sure you're very busy and I can just stay in here and read quietly if you have real work to do and…"

"You would like me to teach you Tevene," she said, stopping him before his rambling could pick up any more steam.

He swallowed and nodded, certain that his ears were now beat red. She smiled and took hold of his arm once more.

"I would be delighted to teach you," she said, lifting her chin and setting her mouth in a firm line. "But I must warn you. I am a stern teacher."

He laughed and bit his bottom lip to hide a cheeky smile. "Well, that's good because I am not a very good student."


	5. Chapter 5

"It is 'er' not an 'a,'" Shala said for what he was certain must have been the tenth time in as many minutes. "You're not in the Free Marches, stop speaking as though you are."

Before he could even raise an argument she snapped her fingers and held up her hand to silence him. "No, I am correct in this. You carry your homeland with every syllable, every clipped ending. Tevene should feel different on your tongue. You must train yourself to form the words as they were meant to sound. Not forced through your nose like an Ostwick fisherman."

Rawley's shoulders tensed and he pointed down at the book atop the table. "I said 'er,'" he insisted, speaking with the measured precision of a man trying not to lose his patience. "I honestly don't hear the difference when you say it."

"And that is precisely the problem," she said with another quick snap of her fingers. "You do not listen and you let your mother tongue dictate your pronunciation because it is easier than learning the correct way to do things."

Rawley took in a slow breath through his nose and pushed away the persistent memories of many similar conversations with teachers in his past. The accusations that he was lazy, that he wasn't trying hard enough, that his failure was earned and well deserved. He never could decide what was worse; their initial belief that he was capable, yet unmotivated or the inevitable realization that his level of effort was often inconsequential when faced with his lack of ability. The sting of his incompetence was not something he relished revisiting and he regretted making Shala witness to it.

"You can't expect to learn this in a day," she said, her voice softening with something close to pity. "It will take time and practice, but you will succeed. I will make sure of it."

"Oh dear, I know that look. You're not making him transcribe runes, are you?" Dorian asked from the doorway.

Rawley closed the reading primer and rose to meet him. Any chance of a smile died on his lips when he saw the bruise and shallow cut beneath Dorian's right eye. He cupped Dorian's face despite the other man's attempts to slide away.

"What happened?" Rawley demanded, tilting his face to get a better look.

"It is nothing, really. You mustn't worry. I let my temper get the best of me, said some things I perhaps shouldn't have and a fellow Magister felt the need to strike me for it. Nothing out of the ordinary for the Magisterium, I assure you. Although I do wish she hadn't been wearing so many rings. Ghastly things, all spiked metal and dragon motifs," Dorian insisted, trying with little success to push away Rawley's fretting hand.

"I assume I have some letters to write," Shala said, sounding none-too pleased about the prospect.

"Perhaps one or two," Dorian replied with a smile the elf did not return. "I left the particulars on my desk."

"Of course, Lord Pavus," Shala said, bowing with just a hint of sarcasm clinging to her words.

"You would think I was asking her to slaughter her first born," Dorian mused once he was certain she was out of earshot. "Ow, honestly, stop fretting. I'm fine."

"Hold still," Rawley said, placing his hand over the cut.

A surprised hiss left Dorian's lips as Rawley's hand warmed against his skin. White light trailed through Rawley's fingers in delicate, snaking tendrils. He murmured a healing spell, the words gentle and precise in the quiet room. The warmth on Dorian's skin sharpened to a tingle that skirted the edge of pain before dulling to nothing but a brief memory of an ache. The white light raced up Rawley's hand and forearm, disappearing as it traveled up his neck.

"Better?" he asked, lifting his hand to inspect Dorian's face.

"Yes," Dorian replied, trailing his fingers over the now smooth skin with a smile. "You've been practicing."

Rawley let his hand drop back to his side and dipped his head in an attempt to hide the flush of his cheeks. "A bit. I've been helping Mother Alden and her healers in Lowtown."

Dorian chuckled and rubbed his cheek, still warm from the spell. "The Herald of Andraste wallowing in the filth of Kirkwall with a blessed Mother of the Chantry, saving the less fortunate. You must attract quite an audience."

Another chuckle died quickly in his throat under the increasing glare of Rawley.

"Don't call me that," he said evenly. "Mother Alden is doing good work and she has a spirit healer working with her. It's…"

"Please tell me you aren't considering becoming a spirit healer," Dorian said, taking hold of his shoulders in a sturdy grip. "You've given enough of yourself to help others. I would hope you wouldn't add voluntary possession to that list…and selfishly I don't relish the idea of sharing you with some spirit."

Rawley crinkled his nose and pulled free of Dorian's grip on his shoulders. "Of course not," he said with a quick roll of his eyes. "It's just fascinating to watch her work and she has helped me improve my own healing spells. Honestly, I think you would like her."

Rawley looked a bit taken aback at the slide of Dorian's mouth into a lecherous smirk. "What?" he asked, looking over his shoulder for an explanation.

"Hmm? Oh, it's simply two of my most favorite things coming together," Dorian replied, his hands moving to rest above Rawley's hips. "You and studying magical theory. I can just picture you, bent over a pile of old manuscripts the crackle of the fade at your fingertips and the scratch of a quill across parchment."

A soft chuckle tumbled from Rawley's lips and rumbled in his chest as Dorian pulled him closer. "Really? You get turned on by studying?"

Dorian pressed a kiss, feather-light and warm, against Rawley's throat. "Of you studying, most assuredly," he said, deepening the kiss to the point that would most certainly leave a bruise. "And your new clothes aren't helping matters. I don't like to brag, but I knew you would look positively dashing in them."

The last comment pulled another laugh from Rawley, the happy sound dying into a pleasured hiss at the ministrations of Dorian's mouth. The hands at his hips tightened and he leaned into the other man's body. The many layers, unnecessary buckles, and straps of the aforementioned outfit now seemed even more of an annoyance in the added distance they caused between skin. Rawley gripped the back of Dorian's robes to pull him closer.

"They're a bit tight," Rawley said, biting back a gasp when a strong hand squeezed his behind.

"I respectfully disagree," Dorian mused.

It was often like this during their time with the Inquisition. Stolen moments with urgent, almost desperate kisses between fights or long stretches of time spent apart. Always hushed and hurried as if any moment they might be discovered. Their hands fumbling and grasping at the other, always gripped tight to assure them of reality. Touches and caresses done in the privacy of a bedchamber or the behind the thin barrier of a canvas tent. Discretion ruled, habits learned from years of hiding one's true self and others spent under the ever watchful eye of a Templar guard. Their moments together were precious and often too short lived for either of them to waste a second.

"I feel as though…you're trying to distract me," Rawley said, biting his bottom lip to hold back a moan at the press of Dorian's hips against his.

"Whatever do you mean?" Dorian replied.

Rawley closed his eyes and tried to push away the nagging twinge of doubt that clouded even this moment of unbridled affection. It wouldn't let go, sinking its teeth into his thoughts and cooling the growing heat of his skin. It seemed there more often than not as of late; that dark, ominous thing lurking in the shadows; ready to ruin any possibility of happiness or peace that might come to light.

"What happened today?" Rawley asked, the words sounding a bit harsher than he intended.

"I told you," Dorian replied, lifting his head with a sigh. "I lost my temper and so did Magister Carllise; she perhaps a bit more so than I."

"Over what?" Rawley asked, moving his hand up to take hold of Dorian's face once more.

Dorian's shoulders rose and fell with another sigh, this one more dramatic than the first. "You're not about to let this go, are you?" Dorian asked, leaning forward until their foreheads met. "I wouldn't want to worry you with the particulars, Amatus."

"Right, because I won't worry without them," Rawley replied, closing his eyes to take in a steadying breath. "I know you…I know you don't want my help with this, that you don't need it, but…please don't leave me in the dark," he said, opening his eyes to force Dorian's gaze. "The truth of the matter can't be any worse than what I imagine in my own head."

Dorian's lips pressed to his with that same cloying desperation of those first frantic kisses. Rawley felt the chill falter under the warmth of this new distraction. His hand slid to grip Dorian's shoulder even as the fleeting moment of their embrace faltered. The room hung heavy with the lingering heat of the day, made all the more so with their closeness.

"Several of Magister Carllise's…associates have been accused of practicing blood magic," Dorian said, his voice little more than a whisper in the quiet room. "We disagreed on the proper punishment for such an offense. She took umbrage to my suggestions on the matter," he said, pressing a kiss to Rawley's lips. "And you…you help me, have helped me, more than you can ever know. I don't keep you from this because I think you incapable. I…" his voice faltered and he cleared his throat to try and hide the sudden break of emotion. "I have tried to keep you from it because you have been through enough," he insisted, another shudder traveled through his body. "And if something were to happen to you, on my behalf or otherwise, I…I cannot…I fear I would not recover."

Rawley reached up to cup Dorian's face, doing nothing to hide the emotion in his own voice. "And you think it would be any different for me if something were to happen to you?"

The open sincerity laid bare in the quiet of the room made Dorian's mask fall. Gone were the quips and the predilection towards sarcasm. An ache settled like a burning stone in his chest, either from shame or happiness or some strange mingling of the two. It crumbled down the walls carefully built brick by brick around that most fragile piece of him. There was suddenly too much air in the room and somehow not enough. The space between them seemed vast and yet he could barely pull enough breath to fill his lungs. None of that mattered when their lips touched once more.


End file.
